


hear these words and have faith

by Rehearsal_Dweller



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Gen, single dad Donald Duck, this ended up sadder than I meant it to sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 16:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12392250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehearsal_Dweller/pseuds/Rehearsal_Dweller
Summary: Donald Duck did not sign up for this.





	hear these words and have faith

**Author's Note:**

> Because apparently Duck Introspection says Lion King to me, the title of this fic is also from "He Lives In You."

Somewhere along the line – and he really wasn’t sure exactly when, how, or where – Donald Duck had acquired a 4th child.

He didn’t really have a problem with that. Webbigail was a very nice little girl, if a little bit awkward. But it really did speak to how ridiculous his life is that he left his sons alone for _one day_ , and while he was away they found and all but adopted a sister. It was probably good for Webby, though; she was a quiet, lonely child, and could probably use some chaos in her life. And Donald’s boys – well, Donald’s boys were experts at chaos.

Donald’s resignation to the fact that his triplets now seemed to be quads was sealed by the fact that Webby didn’t seem to have parents of her own anywhere nearby. Not that Mrs B didn’t love her or take care of her; Donald was just a sucker for orphans, apparently.

And anyway, it wasn’t really the first time they’d done this.

\--

When Donald’s boys were about 4, Goofy’s wife died. It was Huey, Dewey, and Louie’s first funeral.

(They never had a funeral for Della, because _Della wasn’t dead, damn it_ , and anyway her closest living family had just emphatically stopped talking to each other.)

He hadn’t really known, at first, how to approach the subject, or whether it was the right time. But in the end he didn’t feel like he could get away with saying nothing to them, so explained as gently as he could what had happened, what was changing. He’d brought them to the funeral, dressed in tiny dress shirts with hand-tied ties.

They’d been remarkably quiet and still during the actual funeral. Donald raised his boys well, though, and despite their energy this didn’t surprise him. The thing that got him, though, was what they did at the luncheon afterward.

He’d gone to chat with Mickey for a while, trusting that there wasn’t too much trouble his boys could get into here. He always kept half an eye on them, though, of course.

They were sitting with Max. They weren’t trying to make him play with them, or running around, or annoying him. Just sitting there, patting his hands or his back.

“You boys were very good today,” Donald said in the car later, glancing at the boys in the mirror. “What did you talk to Max about?”

“Nothing,” said Dewey, sounding honest. Four year olds aren’t great liars.

“We just sat with him,” agreed Louie.

“Well that’s nice of you. Goofy told me that Max has been feeling really sad lately, I bet you helped him feel a little better,” Donald said. He was going to leave it there, but then Huey said –

“Max is like us now, Uncle Donald. We’ve gotta stick together.”

\--

So Webbigail was part of their lives now, was one of Donald’s now. She was a bit of a handful, but that meant almost nothing in the grand scale of things. Everything in their entire lives had been turned upside down.

Donald tried to be flexible, tried to roll with the punches and figure things out with Mrs Beakley and Uncle Scrooge. It wasn’t easy, though, because as much as Mrs B and Uncle Scrooge felt thrown or inconvenienced by his presence – their presence – Donald and his boys were the ones who’d had their lives thrown into a blender and then poured back into “their life” shaped molds. Not even that.

It was a lot like living someone else’s life, honestly. Donald had done that enough times in his life to know what it felt like. It wasn’t always so bad, actually; the time he’d spent touring in South America with José and Panchito way back when had definitely felt like living in the life of a much happier person. Other times – other times weren’t so good.

Donald glanced at his sons – his nephews – through the window and sighed. He loved them, he loved them more than anything else in this world, but –

\--

Donald sighed. It was 9pm, and the boys were finally asleep. They were old enough to sleep through the night without much trouble, but getting them to go to bed, stay in bed, and go to sleep was a massive battle every day. He flopped across his armchair.

It’s just not _fair_. He hadn’t asked for kids! He didn’t sign up for this!

_Della_ did. She’d been so excited, so _ready_ to be a mom. It didn’t matter that her fella was gone, it didn’t matter that it hadn’t been her plan, she wanted these boys so, so badly. But she just couldn’t let go of their old life, and it had bitten her in the tailfeathers. It had bitten both of them in the tailfeathers.

Donald remembered sitting up with Della late into the night, as she planned and talked about her kids-to-be. She talked about raising them, about dressing them up for Halloween, about taking them to school for the first time.

But Della wasn’t going to get to do any of those things.

Donald was.

Donald as the one who’d just tucked the boys into bed. He was the one who took them to the park and the doctor’s office. He’d be the one to take them to school someday.

He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet, but he’d started making inquiries into adopting Huey, Dewey, and Louie. It broke his heart even to think about it, but he knew Della wasn’t coming back any time soon.

He kept putting it off, though. He already felt like he was living Della’s life, he couldn’t take her sons, too.

\--

The easiest way for Donald to make sure his family was safe was just to go with them when they went to do ridiculous, dangerous things.

(Scrooge, at one point, offered to pay Donald for it. It had been his actual job, once, being Scrooge’s companion on adventures. Donald refused point blank; nowadays it felt much more like he was there as childcare than anything else. He didn’t need paying for that, whatever their financial woes. He was their parent; it was his job.)

It was hard to keep eyes on them, since there were four. Three had always been bad enough, thanks very much. He was trying to content himself with just attaching himself to one or another – well, usually with a pair or trio, as the kids did like to stick together – and hoping that his uncle or Mrs B or (god forbid) Launchpad was keeping a close eye on the rest.

Today, he’d linked up with Dewey and Webby. He found himself making repeated mental notes to not ever let them partner up again, since lord knows they were the two most likely to make ridiculously bad decisions. And that was how –

“Uncle Donald, check this out!” Webby shouted, doing a back handspring and landing right at the edge of the big rock they were standing on before bouncing right back because of the magical distortion.

Donald caught her as she bounced toward him. “Webbigail, don’t do that, you’re going to get yourself –“

\--

“- killed!” Donald shouted.

“Lighten up, Donnie!” replied Della, shaking off his hands.

“ _Della_ ,” he said. He didn’t like how reckless his sister always was; it made him nervous. Sure, they were paid to be adventurers, but there were limits, right?

There had to be limits.

But Della wasn’t so concerned.

“I’ve you’re going to have ducklings every time _I_ have a little fun, stay home next time!”

And then she grabbed him by the forearms and spun him around, making him smile despite himself. With that, they’d gone racing off after their uncle after some pile of shiny things or other.

“Last one there has to listen to Scrooge whine about Glomgold on the way home!” Donald called to her.

Della raced past. “Hope you like Scottish one-upmanship, Don! It’s gonna be a long trip home if you don’t!”

\--

“Webby,” Donald repeated, reigning his emotions back in. “Webby, you need to be more careful.”

Webby looked up at him, confusion visible in her eyes. “I’ll try.”

“Please,” said Donald quietly. Webby wrapped her wee arms around him.

“Uh, Uncle Donald, are you okay?” Dewey asked.

Donald didn’t answer, just opened his arm to let Dewey join the hug.

Later that night, when they got home, Donald dug out his old journal. He hadn’t written in it in ages – not since he’d had the boys. But it had this one picture in the back of it, one of the few photos he still had of Della.

She looked so happy, her tiny baby boys in her arms.

“Aw, Dell,” he said, his thumb brushing over his sister’s smiling face. “I wish you could see them.”

Della would love Webby, Donald knew, just as much as Donald did.

“Uncle Donald?” a small voice said hesitantly. Donald turned and saw Webby in the doorway. “Granny says you should come in for dinner now.”

Donald nodded. He stood up, leaving the journal on the table but keeping the photo in his hand. “Webs, do you want to see something really special?”

“Sure,” said Webby, shrugging but looking hopeful.

Donald crossed the room to walk with her into the mansion. He held the picture out to her. “This is my sister. I think she’d really like you.”


End file.
